


on the lam

by freakydeakymoonmagic



Series: shy of conflict of any kind [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Viktor Nikiforov has nerves of steel, being a crybaby is Yuuri's superpower, homophobic atmosphere, hopping from plane to plane, never doubt, never judge, that thing of when it's illegal for two dicks to touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8868049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakydeakymoonmagic/pseuds/freakydeakymoonmagic
Summary: The world finds out – or is about to, anyway.





	

Yuuri is scrolling idly through his newsfeed when he discovers that it’s finally happened. 

There it is. A hickey blooming from under the collar knocked askew on his shimmering green skating costume, captured for posterity on the third page of an online sports news site. “Oh, Viktor . . .” he sighs in despair.

The man in question is in the sitting room of the Airbnb townhouse they’ve rented for the week in Amsterdam. Yuuri finds him sunlit and reclined in a flowery armchair. “Viktor, I think you need to see this.” He sets the laptop on Viktor’s lap and sits himself down next to Viktor’s legs on the footrest.

Viktor studies the photo. Yuuri hasn’t competed in that outfit for at least a month. Someone must have combed through some old stills.

Obviously, a hickey on Yuuri’s neck doesn’t necessarily mean Viktor gave him one, but it’s only a matter of time before people manage to find more evidence, now that they know to look. They’ve taken great care not to leave hard and fast evidence for nigh on two years now, to only ever tease at what they really are. For some of the world, it wouldn’t – it won’t be a big deal. Possibly, it won’t even be a big surprise. For rest of the world, a part of the world that fostered Viktor and nurtured him, put so much of its pride in him, it will be something closer to a witch hunt. Not yet, but soon.

As soon as Viktor says the word, Yuuri’s got his phone out, Googling transportation options.

There are small treasures in Moscow Viktor doesn’t want to leave behind to whatever fate may await it. They’ll have to be careful. It doesn’t exactly shock Yuuri that Viktor has few friends close enough to ask and none of them in town. Yakov won’t risk his career and his livelihood to do it and they definitely can’t ask it of Yuri, a firecracker to be sure but a minor nonetheless.

Ticket prices are astronomical, but according to Viktor, they will more than break even with the kinds of things he apparently keeps lying around an apartment he rarely visits.

The soonest plane to Moscow they can feasibly catch leaves in less than two hours, a three-hour trip. There’s another leaving from Moscow to Paris four hours after the first flight lands, where they can bounce back to Japan without any stops. Or vacation in Nice. You know. Whatever mood they’re in at that point.

 

 

They do their best to stroll casually from the taxi to the old apartment building, but once the front door closes behind them, it’s a frantic dash up the stairs. Viktor’s hands are remarkably steady as he slams the key into the lock and twists. Around them, the calm atmosphere and gathering dust of the apartment present a strange reverse mirror to the canned panic inside their bodies.

Viktor darts to a closet and drags out three large, folded-up boxes. They’re beaten up and look to be products of some intense online shopping. Everything he definitely wants to bring with him from Russia has to fit into them. Yuuri closes the front door, locks and bolts it, and asks where the tape is.

The best his apartment has to offer is masking tape, but it’ll have to do. There’s no time go buy bubble wrap or find old newspapers, so they have to wrap breakables in Viktor’s shirts and pants. Socks stuffed full with odds and ends. Yuuri reassembles the boxes, but he tries not to do it too quickly. He wants to give Viktor the time and space to sort out what he needs most, to say good bye to his old home, but Viktor’s already soaring from room to room, ferrying all his most beloved worldly possessions back to Yuuri by the armful without even seeming to have to think about it. 

They’ve nearly filled box number two to the brim when he cracks.

It’s stupid, but Yuuri feels his eyes watering up even as he continues to roll a pair of rosy sunglasses sans a case up inside a beautiful herringbone scarf. Incredibly bad timing, but he can’t help it. This is all his fault, even if he knows Viktor made his choice knowing full well this might happen. It’s still his fault for letting that damn video of him mimicking Viktor’s free program routine leak. He rubs at eyes, tries to stop it.

Then Viktor’s there, resting a hand on his shoulder and squatting in front of him. Inexplicably, he’s smiling. “It’s okay, Yuuri. I think . . . I think this was always going to happen. This is probably for the best, and I’m lucky to have you here with me.” He straightens back up, shoulders rounder than their usual proud shape, and offers his hand to Yuuri. “C’mon, let’s finish.”

Yuuri sniffles and lets Viktor pull him back up. They finish filling the boxes, more sedately now. Yuuri doesn’t know where Viktor keeps his trophies, but he doesn’t see any go into any boxes.

Once the last thing goes in, a stately winter coat folded over top of everything else, Yuuri commandeers Viktor to help hold down the flaps while he layers tape over them again and again. “How are we going to get the boxes to the post office?”

“There’s a second key inside the wallpaper in the hallway. I’ll tell the movers where it is and have them ship my things. The inn at Hasetsu, right?”

“Yeah. That sounds good.” He has to laugh a little; his family will be so pleased to be able to keep Viktor. Okay, and Makkachin. Vicchan’s death had hit everyone hard. It was good for everyone to have a dog back at home.

Viktor scribbles the address on the first three eligible pieces of paper he finds. Two are take-out menus with blank backsides and one is a very long receipt. Dutifully, Yuuri tapes them on to each box, careful not to let the opaque masking tape cover up the address. He finishes, stands, and takes in the living room, most things still placed exactly as they were. So much left behind. This was such a big part of Viktor’s life and now it’s about to be gone. They can’t even fight, not proactively anyway. This is more like running away in the most strategic manner available.

And then it’s time to go. Viktor takes one last lingering tour around the apartment, pats the walls soothingly as he walks out. He locks the door and slips the key under. He’ll have to call his landlord once they’re back on safer soil.

 

They’re power walking past a few blocks just to let Viktor take in the neighborhood one last time when Viktor stops and says, “Wait, wait, wait . . .” He presses his face and hands up against the glass panes of an old storefront. “What is it?”

Viktor gazes into the darkened shop. “My favorite tailor.”

Yuuri chokes, “You have more than one?!” Viktor only sighs, gazing dejectedly inside. Of all the things in his hometown to linger over, this is the one Yuuri can understand least. But this isn’t about Yuuri, this is about Viktor. He places his hand at a careful height on Viktor’s back and resists the urge to check that there aren’t other people around to see. “Hey, he’ll still have your measurements. We can ask him to send you clothes.” If he knows Viktor at all, he knows that’ll suck more than half the fun out it. But needs must. Viktor hangs his head. “You’re right.” He sighs again, hard, and trudges on. They fall back into step.

The ride to the airport is one on edge, to say the least. Ticketing isn’t much better. There’s a moment at security where the customs officer is shining a purple light over Yuuri’s passport and Yuuri is trying so hard not to seem like he’s nervous, but he needs to jiggle his leg so badly. The guy’s already taken so long with his passport, at least twice as long as with Viktor’s. And Yuuri is sorry, okay – sorry he regularly has amazing butt sex with Russia’s greatest figure skater (though Yuri Plisetsky has making great strides towards changing that), sorry for taking him away from the sport, sorry for not shouting it from the rooftops for this precise reason, this exact moment happening right now.

Yuuri is waiting for someone to clap on the handcuffs when the customs officer hands back the passport and ticket with a small, genial nod.

He barely manages to stammer out a thank you in English before Viktor’s guiding him away to the scanning machines. After that, the short wait at the gate isn’t as nerve-wracking as it could be.

And when they’re on the plane, buckled up and waiting for the wheels to start moving, it’s Yuuri gripping Viktor’s hand tight enough squeeze the bones. Viktor gazes out of the little window the entire flight, but it’s Yuuri holding back tears again. He accepts two Sprites every time the air hostess wheels by just to keep hydrated.

It’s so unfair and Viktor is so accepting his circumstances and everything is terrible. The pilot announces their winding descent into Paris and jostles something loose, the way any new development on an uneventful plane trip does. He turns to Viktor, still holding his hand, though more loosely now, and has to ask, “Aren’t at least a little bit angry?” Viktor turns to him, sad and at peace in the way that only portraits are supposed to be.

“Angry at who? Angry for how long? Once you start, there’s no end to it.” Yuuri can’t understand that; you can’t choose not to be angry. If he’s angry, he’s angry and if he’s not, he’s not. But if it works for Viktor, who he to question it, really. Also, he has to be glad that Viktor isn’t falling to pieces like Yuuri certainly would be, were their situations reversed. Facing imminent rejection by his homeland, probably criminalization, too. Yuuri has to marvel at his strength.

“Plus, I might need new citizenship after this whole mess. And I can think of a few good ways to get some.” Yuuri’s head whips around – and going by Viktor’s modest smile, the kind and sober glint in his eye, he’s probably serious. “You want to?” His face feels numb. His fingers are tingling.

“Well,” Viktor shrugs, still smiling. “It’s far from the worst option. In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now.” He pats his pocket meaningfully.

Yuuri, simply put, is stunned. “Really?”

Like a rabbit out of a hat, like an impossible prescience of the card in Yuuri’s mind, Viktor sticks his fingers in a surely empty pocket and pulls out a ring. “What did you think the trip to Amsterdam was for, Yuuri?”

Well, for vacation: that’s the answer Viktor deserves. What he gets instead is Yuuri cupping his face, tangling their mouths together in an airplane chock full of strangers. He waits until the train rolls into the station at Nice to shout it from the rooftops.


End file.
